


Shall We Not Revenge

by Lotusflower85



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotusflower85/pseuds/Lotusflower85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times Robin tries to kill Guy of Gisborne, and discovers that it’s not so easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall We Not Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2008. AU after 2x13. 
> 
> The title is from The Merchant of Venice.

The first time he tries to kill Guy of Gisborne, he’s trapped by circumstance.

 

_I will kill you whether you talk or not._

 

He means those words, red-tipped sword at Gisborne’s throat, prepared to punish the man for his treason, for his attempt on the King's life, for the wound in his side that still aches when he takes a fall. He’s eager, for not all of his bloodlust was defeated in the Holy Land. Beneath the surface, Robin realises that he is still a man capable of doing anything.

 

It’s Much who stops him, Much, who talks so much nonsense that it is easy to miss the wisdom hidden underneath. Much - and Marian - who stay his hand, because he wants to be the man they both believe he is.

   


* * *

 

   


The second time he tries to kill Gisborne is after he returns from the Holy Land for the last time, to an England much colder than he remembers. He is still numb from the loss of Marian, and not yet ready to give in to his anger. Instead he is calculating, his planning almost clinical as he waits until Gisborne is asleep and arms himself with a dagger, because he wants to inflict pain. He wants to feel the blood on his hands.

 

So he doesn’t know why he stays in the chair by the window, in the shadows, and watches Gisborne sleep instead of taking his revenge. He’s killed unarmed men before; when battle clouds the mind until killing becomes as easy as breathing, and just as blind. And yet he cannot approach Gisborne, cannot make his legs propel him forward to make the final, murderous stroke.

 

It is a while before Robin realises Gisborne is awake. Waiting. Still Robin does not move, and wonders why Gisborne does not reach for the sword within his reach, close to the bed. After what feels like minutes, but could be hours, Gisborne is the first to speak.

 

“Well do it, if you’re going to.” His voice is deep, yet resigned. Apathetic.

 

Robin toys with the dagger in his hands, the blade catching the moonlight that streams in through the window behind him. “You want me to,” Robin says into the darkness, and it is not so much a question but an acknowledgement. Somehow, he is not surprised.

 

Gisborne’s eyes are on the ceiling, and Robin’s gaze lingers over his pale, exposed throat. “I really don’t care,” he answers. “Just don’t sit there _looking_ at me.”

 

“I can do whatever I like,” Robin responds petulantly. “This is my bedroom after all.” An old wound flares, the stab of pain worse than before, because he’s always imagined regaining his property, his Manor, and now he’s not sure he even wants it anymore, not without Marian. He just doesn’t want Gisborne to have it.

 

Gisborne sits up and gives him a mocking look, but a pale imitation of what he was once capable of. All of his features seem altered now, Robin notices; dull around the edges and full of deep, shadowed hollows. “Back to that, are we?” Gisborne asks, smirking. “I’d rather you killed me now than having to listen to you whine about how I’ve stolen your house, your peasants…your _woman_.” His voice falters there, and Robin feels a surge of triumph.

 

“My wife,” he corrects him. “We were married.”

 

“I’m so pleased for you,” Gisborne responds dully, sinking back down into the bed and closing his eyes. “Now get on with it.”

 

Robin stands and clutches the dagger in his hand. Gisborne is prone on the bed - pale, hair lank and while clean-shaven, several cuts on his chin betray the force with which he wields his razor. Or, Robin considers, perhaps he has flirted with ending his own suffering. Robin knows that Gisborne is not the type to take his own life, any more than he himself is. No, he needs someone else to do it, to take the blame, the guilt and the sin away from him.

 

So it is not out of any thought of compassion, or what _she_ would have wanted, or fear of what returning to ruthlessness may do to his soul, that makes Robin sheath his dagger.

 

“I am not a kind man, Gisborne,” Robin says, moving back towards the window and escape. “Don’t mistake me, I _will_ kill you,” he tells him firmly. “I just think you need to suffer a little more first.”

   


* * *

  

   


The third time he tries to kill Gisborne, Robin feels the flesh of his knuckles split as his fist pounds into his enemy’s face. The pain feels like retribution as he batters Gisborne’s flesh, his sides, his gut, wanting to do as much damage as he can. Gisborne hits him back with equal fervour, as Robin finally lets his anger take him over. He has been so controlled until now, unwilling to let himself feel grief or pain, saving it for the moment he has been waiting what feels like an eternity for. Gisborne punches him hard in the belly and Robin falls to the forest floor, and the tears that cloud his vision have very little to with physical pain.

 

When Gisborne is on top of him, Robin gives him a swift kick which sends him backwards, into a nearby tree and then to the ground. Robin draws his dagger, the one that has been constantly slung at his side for almost a year, and pins Gisborne into the dirt. This time, he is going to kill him. He’s been watching Gisborne in the castle for months, carrying out the Sheriff’s orders as diligently as he did before, although Robin sees that there is no pleasure in his work now. Once, Gisborne enjoyed harassing his peasants, insulting his guards, causing pain to people who disobeyed him, but no longer. The servants in Locksley Manor have even told Robin that Gisborne is now kind to them, talks to them, ensures that they are rewarded for good work and treated well.

 

But he presses the dagger to Gisborne’s throat anyway, because he doesn’t believe in redemption. He tries not to think about the people who have forgiven him in the past, for the many things he has done wrong. There is fear is Gisborne’s eyes, not the resignation that Robin saw the last time. “What?” he asks, some of his old flippancy finding its way back to him. “Don’t want me to kill you anymore?”

 

“I’ve come to help you,” Gisborne snarls.

 

“So you said, but you’ve got a funny way of showing it.” With his free hand Robin fingers the tender skin around his left eye, where a bruise is already forming.

 

“You hit me first,” Gisborne says, struggling half-heartedly under Robin’s weight.

 

“Can you blame me, though?” Robin uses his knee to push Gisborne’s arm further into the dirt and presses the dagger a little closer to his throat. “You show up, and say you want to help us bring down the Sheriff. How am I supposed to react to that after all you’ve done for him. You _killed_ her for him.” Robin is unable to stop his voice from breaking, for it’s the first time in months that he’s acknowledged her death out loud.

 

Gisborne sighs and stops struggling. “Not for him...I didn't want to kill her”

 

Fresh anger burns inside of Robin, fire racing through the veins that until now have been ice-cold. “So your sword accidentally plunged itself through her belly?" he asks.  "So if my hand _accidentally_ slips, I can claim I never wanted to kill you either?”

 

“Oh, get off me, Hood,” Gisborne mutters. “We both know you’re not going to do it.”

 

Robin wants to do it just to spite him, but his curiosity wins out, and he stands, allowing Gisborne to sit up and move to rest against a tree, where he gingerly touches the back of his head.  When his fingers come away red, Gisborne regards them indifferently.

 

“Hope that hurts,” Robin can’t help but say.

 

“Nothing hurts me anymore,” Gisborne answers softly.

 

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Robin bites at him. “You did this.”

 

“Do you want me to apologise?” Gisborne looks at him, pained. “I can’t,” he adds. “You can hit me all you like, rub it in that she loved you and not me, anything, I don’t care, because nothing you say or do will make a difference to me.”

 

Robin snorts in disgust and looks away, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against a tree. He does not sheath his dagger, in the hope that he does not find worth in Gisborne’s proposition and can get on with killing him.

 

“And I don’t want your forgiveness, either,” Gisborne continues. “That’s not why I came.”

 

“Why did you come?” Robins asks. “Other than to bore me to death?”

 

Gisborne’s eyes flash at him in anger. “I loved her just as much as you did.”

 

Robin shakes his head resolutely. “No you didn’t.”

 

“How could you possibly know?” Gisborne says darkly. “I thought I wanted power, and chose it over her – I suspected, then, her feelings for you – and so refused her when she offered to marry me if I killed the Sheriff.”

 

That swiftly gets Robin’s attention. He hadn’t known that. Still, he is not surprised, because he knows that Marian, like him, and like Gisborne apparently, was capable of anything.

 

“I wanted her to love me – but not out of obligation.” Gisborne keeps speaking, more to himself than Robin, now. “But now I have nothing, and would give anything – even a sham of a marriage – even for her to be with _you_ ,” Gisborne’s eyes shoot back to him venomously. “As long as she was alive. I chose power, and now it’s the last thing I want. So I have come to help you, Hood.” Gisborne slowly gets to his feet, until he stands tall, and resolute.

 

“So kill the Sheriff,” Robin tells him simply. “Do what she wanted you to – you don’t need me for that.”

 

“It’s gone beyond the Sheriff now,” Gisborne says. “If he dies there will be another Black Knight to take his place.”

 

“So your plan is…what, exactly?” Robin presses him.

 

Gisborne glares at him and dusts the dirt off from his tunic, stalling because he does not want to say the words.

 

“So, you’ll be my eyes and ears in the castle, then?” Robin eventually speaks, because he needs the terms to be said aloud. “Help us bring them down from the inside, make England safe for the King to return to?”

 

Gisborne nods curtly and starts to walk away without saying another word.

 

“And when this is all over…” Robin calls after him, sheathing his dagger. “I will kill you.”

 

Gisborne turns back to him, and smiles bitterly. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The fourth time, Much offers to kill Gisborne for him.

 

They sit on the outskirts of Sherwood, waiting for him at the designated spot. He’s late, and so Much builds a fire while Robin broods. He feels he’s made a deal with the devil.

 

“Seriously, Robin,” Much says as he pokes the fire with a stick. The flames pop and spark, and Robin cannot stop staring at the blackening wood. “I know you want to do it,” Much continues. “But something’s stopping you.”

 

“I keep thinking that it’s not what she would have wanted,” Robin answers softly. “She never liked the idea of revenge.”

 

“But he killed her,” Much goes on. “Surely that’s justice? And if I did it, that wouldn’t be you, would it? Your conscience would be clear, Gisborne would be gone and Marian would be avenged.” Much drops the stick and claps his hands together. “Problem solved!”

 

“Much,” Robin shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself – it would destroy you inside.”

 

“But I would do it,” Much tells him earnestly, moving to sit beside Robin. “I would do it.”

 

“I know,” Robin says, smiling sadly. “But I will not ask it of you.”

 

Much squeezes his shoulder in gesture of comfort. For a moment, Robin wonders - even if Gisborne's grief is one-tenth of what Robin feels - how he copes without someone to share it with, to help him through the dark hours.

 

“Thank you, my friend,” he says, without saying what he is thankful for. Robin knows Much understands that it’s for everything.

 

There is a rustle in the trees, and the sound of leaves crunching under heavy boots, signalling Gisborne’s approach. “I hate to interrupt...” he says sardonically as he appears from the trees, casting a derisive look in Much’s direction. He takes a seat beside the fire and begins to warm his hands.

 

Robin indicates for Much to leave them alone.

 

“No,” Much responds indigently. “We can’t trust him...we can’t trust you,” he turns to Gisborne. “This whole thing could be a trap.”

 

“Much, please.” Robin tries to placate him. He knows Gisborne is trustworthy, because he knows his pain is real. He sees himself reflected in Guy’s slumped shoulders, his hollow cheeks, his empty eyes. Much is not convinced, but leaves without further comment.    

 

“Let’s have it,” Robin prompts, always eager to spend as little time as possible with the man he still considers his enemy.

 

“Still following you around, then?” Gisborne nods to where Much disappeared through the trees.

 

“Careful, Gisborne,” Robin warns him. “I might still decide this deal’s not worth the effort.” The dagger in his belt has become an extension on his very being. He even sleeps with it close-by, although the dreams in which he makes use of it have become far less frequent. Somehow, as Gisborne has become more integral to their plans, he has become less important to Robin.

 

“Fine,” Gisborne waves a dismissive hand. “Tomorrow, in Clun. The meeting’s at noon, in the old barn.”

 

“Thank you.” Robin turns back to the fire, and waits for Gisborne to leave. “What?” he asks when minutes pass and he does not make a move. “Want to chat?”

 

Gisborne took a deep breath. “It was just something Marian said once-”

 

“I don’t want to talk about her,” Robin cuts him off shortly. “Go ease your conscience elsewhere.”

 

“Still can’t say her name, then?” Gisborne asks, and if there is meant to be derision in his tone it does not break through. Instead his voice is soft, as if offering advice – or solidarity. “For the longest time I couldn’t do it either,” he continues. “Couldn’t speak of her, not even say her name out loud. But then I decided that she would have thought that was weak. Marian would never have let grief, or pain, prevent her from doing anything she had done before. She was too strong for that.”

 

His insight surprises Robin, because he hadn’t realised Gisborne had known her well enough to provide such understanding into her character. But mostly because Robin knows he is right. If Marian could see him, so scared of his grief that he cannot even speak her name, cannot linger over the good times they had together, she would laugh, and call him a fool.

 

Robin finds he cannot look Gisborne in the eye, does not want him to see that he has scored a hit. His gaze shifts to the scabbard which Gisborne had lain on the ground beside the fire, the symbolic disarming he always goes though when they meet. Robin, of course, always keeps his weapons close.

 

“Why do you still use that?” he asks, indicating the sword in its sheath. He recognises the handle, because every instant of that day under the eastern sun is burnt into his mind. Robin knows that if it was him, he would have thrown it away - crushed it to dust.

 

Gisborne shrugs, and looks away. “To remind me. Every time I draw my sword, I remember what it did. What _I_ did. I suppose…to stop me from using it in anger.”

 

Robin doesn’t quite understand, but chooses not to press the subject. For the first time, he feels a vague sense of pity for the man before him.

 

“Marian-” Robin almost chokes on the name, but tells himself not to be stupid. “Marian…” he says again, stronger this time, the sound pleasant on his tongue, his tone thoughtful “…she always said she thought you were a good man…underneath.” He has never understood her conviction in that regard, an opinion that had only solidified over time, the longer he knew Gisborne.  But now…Robin is not so sure.  

 

Gisborne leaves abruptly, and without another word. Robin watches him disappear into the darkness, and wonders.     

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The last time, there is nothing to stop Robin from killing Gisborne, but he finds that he no longer wants to.

 

He visits Guy in the castle dungeons, gets the guard to open the cell and tells him to leave him alone with the prisoner. Even though the Sheriff is dead, killed by Gisborne’s own hand, even though he was instrumental in helping Robin and the gang bring down the rest of the Black Knights, he cannot escape his past crimes. And Richard has not forgotten the woman who saved his life in the Holy Land, nor the man who killed her.

 

Robin stands before Guy in his finest clothes, uncomfortable in splendour after so long in rags. Surprisingly, he feels no pleasure in seeing Guy in coarse cloth, his form diminutive and slumped against the stone wall. The words he's come to say are thick on his tongue. “I came to tell you...” he begins, and clears his throat. “The King has scheduled the execution for dawn.”

 

Guy nods. “The guard informed me.”

 

Robin nods in return. He feels like he should leave, having done what he came to, and fulfilling what he considered to be a courtesy to the man who admittedly, had been instrumental in their victory. And yet, somehow, he feels...guilty.

 

“Even if I wanted to speak for you...” he begins, but finds himself unable to finish the sentence, unsure why he is trying to justify himself.

 

“I know,” Guy acknowledges. “My crimes are too many, and too grave.”

 

Robin wants to leave, but finds himself rooted to the spot. “I forgive you,” he blurts out, hardly even aware that he’s said it. He has been considering it, of course, wondering if it could even be possible. But he realises that his anger, his malice, has faded away, that he has been long clinging to revenge as a principle, rather than anything else.    

 

Guy gives him a suspicious look. “I said I didn’t want your forgiveness.”

 

“I know,” Robin says, and shifts uncomfortably. “But you have it. Marian would have wanted that, I think,” he continues, knowing that he would grieve forever, but understanding that he has moved past blame, or condemnation. “And I owe you my gratitude, for helping us...of course, the Sheriff might not have been so successful in the first place if it wasn’t for you...”

 

“Alright, alright,” Guy holds up a halting hand. “I know.”

 

Robin nods again, and turns to go.

 

“Wait, Locksley...” Guy’s voice calls him back. “Is...is it to be the rope?” he asks, his voice raw, and Robin realises that he is afraid.

 

“The King...he has ordered you to be hung, drawn and quartered.” Robin finds no reason to lie. “You did try to kill him, after all.”

 

“But for you.” There is no venom in Guy’s voice, and Robin realises he bears no acrimony towards him. Somehow, they’ve moved beyond adversaries, beyond enemies. Robin even feels a strange sort of pity. He remembers that Marian once believed they were not so very different, and he finally understands how easily his and Gisborne’s positions could be reversed.

 

“I can talk to the guard, make sure they get you a decent last meal,” he finds himself saying.

 

“You can do something else for me,” Guy says and lifts his eyes to meet Robin’s. “You always said you were going to kill me...and you still have that dagger.”

 

Unconsciously, Robin’s had goes to his side where his dagger hangs. “Why?” he asks, confused.

 

“The quick, cold steel, versus the agony that awaits me?” Guy smiles humourlessly. “It would be a kindness.”

 

“No,” Robin says. “You deserve the pain.”

 

“You think so?” Guy challenges him. “I have suffered in every possible way, and killed everything I held dear. And I’m tired, Locksley. All I want is to be released from this life. Quickly, if possible.”

 

“So why should I take pity on you?” Robin asks. “You killed everything _I_ held dear.”

 

“No, I didn’t,” Guy, standing and advancing on him. “You have memories that weren’t false – that weren’t an act.” He opens his palms invitingly, and nods. “And you do pity me, or you wouldn’t be here.”

 

Robin draws his dagger, and holds it firmly in his hand. He doesn’t expect victory to feel so hollow, but it does. Guy closes his eyes, and Robin wonders if it is a kindness to him, to spare him the memory. They’ve both killed enough to know that it’s the eyes that you remember, that mark your soul and your dreams. Robin doesn’t need a reminder of another life he’s taken, even if once it was all he desired.

 

He presses the dagger against Gisborne’s chest. Robin does not hesitate, and feels no satisfaction as he plunges the blade into his heart. Guy cannot finish his final breath, and crumples to the floor, at Robin’s feet, who finds there is no victory, no sense of freedom, or relief in the act. 

 

All he feels is an overwhelming sense of waste.


End file.
